


Punishment

by pherede



Series: Livewrites [8]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Consensual, F/M, Obstinate Impulsive Ladies, Protector Issues, Punishment, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherede/pseuds/pherede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guard Tauriel has failed in her duties; Thranduil has been harboring some frustrations for a very long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punishment

“Escaped,” says the Elvenking, tasting the word as if it’s bitter, or as if Tauriel has struck him in the mouth and he is tasting blood. She refuses to break eye contact anyway, even knowing that she will certainly be punished.

“Yes, my lord. Escaped. Fled in the night, possibly through the water-gate.”

He looks at her, looks away, lets go a sigh of fury through flared nostrils. She knows better than to say anything. Thranduil prefers to seethe in silence, to vent his rage in wine and glowering, a habit he has learned through ages of his own hot temper and a thousand injustices; it is this that hurts her most about her failure, knowing that he will turn it inward, that he will dismiss her and refuse to speak of it for years.

Yes, she knows better than to say anything. She says it anyway: “Will my lord punish me?”

He stops, looks back at her, hands clasped behind his back, the rustling weight of his hair falling across his shoulders with the movement. “Punish you? You are already stripped of guard duty until the new year.”

She plows ahead, letting her eyes drop, knowing that a moment later she will regret this. “A more… physical punishment. A beating.”

Thranduil says nothing to this, and the shame catches up to her, flooding her face. She can feel him looking at her.

“No,” he says, and she hears in his voice that he is appalled at the suggestion, that he would never— and the shame turns to anger, as it always does, and she looks back up at him with hot fury in her face and as her lips part to spit a challenge she realizes that he is looking at her, that he is also disguising some secret dark thing that he has wanted in his lonesome tempers.

She spits at him.

His eyes go black and dilated with wrath and he is on her in a moment, his long fingers seizing her by the hair, his face close enough to taste if she kissed it; she holds his eyes, even though her belly is trembling with some strange blend of fear and arousal— for he is beautiful, her king, and when she has driven him to strike her she will tell him afterward that she enjoyed it, and he will see the truth in her eyes and feel no guilt.

He does not strike her, but he is so close that she feels his fingers stretch at his side, and she can see his temper surging and his well-practiced mastery of it winning; so she begs him: “Please, my lord; I want it.”

His lips part; his head tilts. He takes a deep, deliberate breath. “You cannot possibly want what I would do to you.”

It kindles in her, a fire in her bones, rage and lust united; she looks into his eyes fearlessly, narrowing her gaze, and retorts: “You cannot possibly do half of what I want, _my lord_.” And she sees him lose the battle, go hard around the eyes; and she braces herself for a blow.

Instead he pulls hard at her hair, twisting her head to the side, and bites her at the juncture of neck and shoulder, fingers digging into her arm and teeth sinking into her skin as he shoves her back against the wall of his private audience chamber; she feels her skin bruise under his teeth, marked shamefully, and gasps in protest just as he pulls away, leaving her throbbing.

“I entrusted you with the safety of my kingdom,” he snarls, “and you have repaid me with drunken foolishness, with my prisoners fled to do Aule-knows-what in their idiot trespasses—” and his fingers are bruising her, holding her by the biceps, and his weight along her body where he is crushing her against the wall is burning and powerful, a tall furious beast unleashed. “If they had gone hunting in my halls, instead of escaping— if they had harmed one of us—”

He is so angry, _so angry_ that it terrifies her, that she is panting with more than just desire as his body moves against hers. She twists in his grip, instinctively seeking freedom, and he grasps her by the hips and slams her back against the wall, darting his mouth down to bite her neck again, mouthing along her ear in paradoxical tenderness— for she is, after all, one of those who her failure placed in greatest danger, and he loves all his subjects, even when he is angry.

Even when he is hard against them, when he is violent in his affection, when he is overwhelmed with a dark desire that has only just now been given permission to vent; it is not a side of him that she (or, most likely, any other elf in the Greenwood) has ever seen, and it makes her want him, makes her crave more of his violent touch, drives her arms to snake around him and pull him tight against her as she moans.

Each encouragement is another step toward danger. This time he rips her tunic in his haste, snaps the laces of her hose; he is nearly as rough with his own clothing, though his heavy beaded robes are more sturdy than her guard’s weeds, and he does not bother to remove his own boots and trousers.

She is naked now, and shaking, and yet she _wants_ and she has never shied from anything she wanted, and so she asks again, letting her wanton lust show just a little in her voice: “Will you not punish me?”

Thranduil’s eyes, as he pulls back to look at her, are dark with amazement and fury, and he seizes her more tightly by the hair and marches her to the couch, where he throws her down onto the cushions in a headlong sprawl before undoing his own laces, fixing her with an expression of jaw-clenched wrath the whole time, watching her breasts rise and fall with her quick panicked breathing. Then he is on her, still half-dressed where she is fully naked, pinning her legs to the couch as she alternately struggles for a better position— for she wants this, but she must struggle for something, and being on top would certainly ease that drive to win— and gives up to writhe against his thigh, where she is beginning to soak his trousers.

“You shameless begging _child_ ,” he spits, slapping her hard on the outside of her thigh at the base of her buttock; but he lifts her hips and sets his length against her and thrusts, the length of him not entering but sliding along her, and her eyes lose focus and she clutches at his arms and _pleads_.

“Ask me again to punish you,” growls Thranduil, with another thrust that leaves her shaking and breathless; she is so close to coming undone just from the slick stroke, from his ferocity, from her own anger and shame, that she can scarcely catch her breath to oblige him. “ _Ask me,_ ” he says again, shaking her viciously, and she gasps and gasps and chokes out—

“Please, my lord, punish me—” and he is inside her before she can finish begging, thrusting with careless anger, his fingers digging fresh bruises into her ribs and her whole body sliding with each thrust along the cushions of the couch until she is forced to grip his arms to hold herself from falling.

And still he fucks her, pounding her relentlessly until they both slide halfway off the couch along with one of the cushions and she is nearly upside-down with one leg still upon the furnishing and her buttocks supported by the cushion and her shoulderblades digging into the floor; he stretches over her like a stormcloud, descending upon her in wicked judgement, securing her by the hair and pounding her until her head is pulled back tight by the tension of his grip.

There is a cruel smile on his face, the dark side of his compassion for his subjects, the scar of millennia of futile protectiveness. “Tell me to fuck you,” he says, and if there is perhaps a shadow of the king seeking consent from his subject, there is a great crashing wave of vengeance, a thousand years of spite and desire, and as she babbles her entreaty— _fuck me, punish me, fuck me hard I need it—_ she feels herself tipping, falling, spasming around him, burning alive inside, and she shudders herself apart as he fucks her to his own completion and fills her with the spend of his rage and his fury, with her own absolution and her own cleansing and her own victory.

Afterward he falls upon her, gasping, and they slide from the ruin of the couch onto the floor; and they lie entangled for a few minutes as the sweat dries upon them, sobbing for air, still quaking from the aftermath of their desire. She feels the exact moment at which he begins to reprimand himself, the tension that settles back into his shoulders, the slight beginnings of withdrawal, and she murmurs:

“That was _almost_ half of what I wanted.”

He laughs and the tension goes out of him, and the end of his laugh is a shudder of released anguish long pent-up, and she hopes that she will need punishment again very soon.


End file.
